


To Tell The Truth

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 06:00:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16470101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: Sansa is not above using magic to find out what Sandor truly thinks of her





	To Tell The Truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pinkolifant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkolifant/gifts).



> Happy Halloween!

Sansa examined her reflection in the glass, smoothed the skirt of her gown, thought about her plans for the evening… and blushed.  Everything she’d chosen for this, she had chosen with him in mind-- red wine, since that was what he favored; heavy goblets, since they would be easier for him to hold; a dress of velvet, since the material would feel nice under his hands...  

She blushed again.  She couldn’t help it.  Even alone in her room, alone with her thoughts, she still couldn’t believe she was planning something as _deliciously wicked_ as what she was planning.

As with most of the unusual things that happened around Winterfell of late, this one had started with Arya. They’d been sitting at dinner, side by side, Sansa only half-listening while Arya entertained Rickon with fantastic stories of faceless men and witchcraft and love spells and truth potions and….   

_“Truth potions?” Sansa scoffed  “There’s no such thing.”_

_“I assure you there is,” Arya told her, with that vaguely-condescending tone she used whenever she knew something Sansa didn’t.  Which was more often than Sansa would have liked. And most of the time she didn’t truly mind, almost relished it, found comfort in the teasing and the needling because it was so much like it_ used _to be. Before._

_But this. This was far too important to worry about antagonizing her sister. Because as soon as she heard those words-- truth potion-- she knew exactly how she would use it if ever she got her hands on such a thing._

_“I assume it’s hard to come by?” Sansa asked, carefully couching her terms so as not to raise any suspicions._

_“Not if you know where to look.”_

_“And… you know where to look?”_

_“Of course,” Arya shrugged, as if bored with the discussion.  “From a woods witch who lives in hovel under a burned tree on the far side of the godswood.”_

_“That place has been abandoned for years," Sansa laughed, certain her sister was mistaken._

_“It only_ looks _abandoned.”_

_Later that evening, after the castle had quieted into slumber, Sansa tossed on some old clothes and headed out into the night._

_The woods witch was something straight out of a crib tale, shriveled and wrinkled and exactly where Arya said she’d be.  Sansa stood in that awful little hut and bravely told the crone what she’d come for, then asked what payment was required while fingering the modest coins in her pocket, worried she hadn’t brought enough._

_“Your shawl,” the old woman said and pointed a crooked finger at the garment._

_Sansa nearly laughed.  Here she was asking for a key to her future and in return all she had to do was relinquish a faded old shawl?  Something she’d only worn as a disguise? She handed it over immediately and received the potion in return._

_“How do I administer it?” she asked, holding up the delicate vial of clear liquid._

_“One tiny drop should loosen even the sternest of tongues.”_

“One tiny drop,” Sansa repeated now, tipping the vial over a cup of wine. Though he was an awfully _big_ man, she reminded herself, and added another little drop.  And stubborn, too-- perhaps another drop. And she _would_ like to ask him immediately. One more drop. And it would do no good if it wore off too soon.  She poured the rest of the potion into the cup.

What was the worst that could happen?

Sansa placed the potioned cup on the table where she intended for him to sit, set her own on the window sill where she’d imagined herself standing, remembered the question in his eyes just this morning when she’d bade him to visit her tonight.... oh, but she was blushing again. Soon enough he would be here and find out what she was after. He would come to her chambers, drink the wine... and she would ask him what she wanted to know. And then…

Well. _Then._

Sansa brushed her hands over the soft velvet of her bodice, imagined it was _his_ hands, imagined the heat growing in his eyes, imagined the sweet things he would confess to her…

The knock at the door made her _jump._  It was time.  One more glance in the mirror and she went to the door, greeted him with a warm smile and his goblet of wine.  Which he took, albeit reluctantly, and stepped into her chambers.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” she agreed, took a deep breath...

And ran headlong into her first problem-- she hadn’t come up with any sort of pretense at all!  She had questions she wanted to ask him and that was the truth, there was nothing more she wanted (well, not _much_ more she wanted).  But he hadn’t taken even one sip of his wine yet, and she couldn’t very well start asking until he had.  

“The wine is very good, you should try it.”

“I’ve had it,” he retorted.  “Did you want something?”

“Yes... “ she said again, a bit rattled and still uncertain of how to proceed.  Which was probably why she asked the first thing she could think of.  “Are you… happy here?”

It was a ridiculous question.  Truly an _utterly ridiculous_ question because of course he was happy there.  She did her best to _make_ him happy there, so how could he not be?

But he didn’t seem to think it was a ridiculous question.  Instead he seemed to be considering it, eyes busy as he shifted from one foot to the other then finally said-

“I reckon.”

“You _reckon_?” she echoed, surprised.  She hadn’t expected such a guarded answer, had honestly expected a swift affirmation of what she’d only assumed was true. And yes, he could be a bit guarded about many things but if he _wasn’t_ happy there...

She reached for her wine, took a nervous sip and pondered the question.  

“What would make you happy?” she asked, and took another quick sip of wine.

“I said I was happy, didn’t I?” he growled irritably.

“No, you didn’t,” she retorted, just as irritably.

Because no, he didn’t-- he _didn’t--_ and she didn’t understand it.  He’d stood there looking like a trapped animal and never said anything at all about being happy, and for the first time she wondered if maybe he was miserable and hated it there and couldn’t wait to leave.  Couldn’t wait to leave _her._

"But where would you _go?”_  she asked, and she meant it sincerely because really, where else _could_ he go?

“I never said I was going anywhere.”

“You… almost said it?” she countered, then cringed at her desperate tone.  She took a sip of wine to cover her reaction. This was not going at all how she’d planned it.  She’d wanted sweet words and sweet confessions but he only seemed annoyed.

“Is this why you asked me here?” he demanded, incredulous, and swept a hand around the room.  “To your _chambers_ in the dark of _night?_  To pester me about _happiness?”_

She had no answer for him, not really, could only stare dumbly and not just because it really did sound like madness when he phrased it like that but because… his hands.  His _empty_ hands. Dread crept into her belly. She looked over at her goblet of wine sitting on the window sill where she’d left it, then down at the empty goblet she was holding.  Back to his empty hands. Oh gods.

“You have to leave.”

“Leave?”

“Yes, leave,” she repeated, barely above a whisper.  What was it making her heart race like that, what was it making her head spin?  Was that the potion? Or was it fear?

“Why do you want me to leave?”  

“I might say something I regret,” she blurted and push push pushed against him, but he remained still as a statue and absolutely not budging

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I drank a truth potion.”

 _“Truth potion?”_ he scoffed, burned lip curling. “There’s no such thing.”

“Oh, but there _is!”_ she gasped. “I bought it from a woods witch who lives in a hovel under a burned tree on the far side of the godswood.”  

The words tumbled forth with all the grace of a toddler tripping over stones. Sansa slapped both hands across her stupid mouth before she could say anything more.  

Sandor looked stunned, brows furrowed as the pieces fell into place.

“You put a truth potion in my wine,” he stated dully. “And then you drank it.”  

It wasn’t really a surprise that he’d been able to puzzle it out.  At least he hadn’t phrased it as a question-- she would have been forced to answer it.  Instead she only hung her head, hands still pressed over her mouth, certain the shame would burn her to ashes and wishing he would leave.

He didn’t leave.

“Sansa Stark,” he growled, her name cracking like a whip off his tongue.  “Why did you put truth potion in my wine?”

She answered him immediately and entirely against her will though the hands  across her lips blunted their meaning.  He was having none of it, though, and pried her fingers firmly but gently away from her mouth.

“Why did you put truth potion in my wine?” he asked again.

“Because I wanted to know how you felt about me.”

“Why didn’t you just ask?”

She huffed.  “I couldn’t _ask.”_

“Why not?”

“Because then you would know how I felt about _you_.”

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, dreading the next logical question.   _How_ do _you feel about me?_ she could almost hear him say.  Surely he wanted to know. And then she would tell him everything, because she’d _have_ to--

That she was madly, hopelessly, _painfully_ in love with him.

He didn’t ask that, though.  And before she could even decide if she was grateful or disappointed by that fact he pulled her by the hands he still held, lead her over to the table so he could sit and look her right in the eyes when he asked--

“What do you want from me, Sansa?”

She dropped her head.  Oh no. The things she wanted from him--- gods, but there were so many, so so very many, how could he ask her that?  How could she even begin to tell him? She couldn't!  

But the urge to answer him was strong.  She _needed_ to tell him.  It would be a relief to say it all.    

“I want your cloak,” she confessed, as strong as her shame would allow. “I want your name.  I want your sons and your daughters. I want your head in my lap after a long day and I want you beside me every night when I fall asleep.”

She swallowed... tried to stay silent… prayed it was enough and she wouldn’t have to say more. But there _was_ more she wanted from him.  So much more. She looked down to where their hands were still joined… and wanted more.

“I want your hands on me,” she continued, a whisper against his ear.  “And your lips on me. Your skin against mine... your heart beating against mine.  I want to be one with you. Always. Forever.”

By the time she was done the words were little more than a sigh, and trailed off into a quiet that seemed to stretch for eternity.  She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear to see what he thought about her. Was she blushing? Probably. But… it was the truth-- she’d wanted those things for a long long time, thought about those things many many ways.  How could she not confess them, now that he was asking for them? And if he didn’t want her… well, at least she’d told him the truth.

That counted for something, didn’t it?

Not much, though, not for her tattered pride, and with the silence going on and on and on between them she was started to regret ever asking him to her chambers.  When he did finally speak he did so gently, as if _she_ was the frightened animal this time.

“I think I can give you those things, if you’re sure you want them.”

“Do you _want_ to give me those things?” she countered, and finally risked a glance up.  

If only he’d had even a drop of that truth potion, maybe he would answer her instead of smirking like that, maybe she wouldn’t be so angry with him about it.  But then he kissed her, gently at first then passionately, kissed her till she was dizzy, like she was full to the brim of giggles and silliness and everything wonderful in the world, and she realized she didn’t need his words.  She had his answer anyway.

It didn’t happen the way she imagined it would happen, true, but it was a sweet and romantic evening and in many ways it was better.  How many hours did she spend curled up in his lap, whispering about their future, whispering about their past, and kissing him anywhere he would allow, as often as he would allow. When he finally bade her goodnight she couldn’t even be too disappointed, because an end to the evening meant the dawn would come faster, and with the dawn came a new life together.  

She was feeling especially swishy the morning after when she headed to the great hall, skirts swirling, thoughts swirling.  There was so much to do, so much to consider, so much to look forward to, that she hardly spared a glance for her little sister till something familiar caught her eye.

“Arya? Where did you get that shawl?”

“This shawl?” she asked, fingering the frayed hem and looking overly-innocent.  “Certainly _not_ from a woods witch who lives in a hovel under a burned tree on the far side of the godswood.  That place has been abandoned for years.”

Sansa’s stomach dropped.  

“You sold me that truth potion?”

“Truth potion, hah!” Arya scoffed and turned to saunter away.  “There’s no such thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> So it never really ‘gelled’ the way I wanted it to, but I really wanted to post today. Hope you like it. Happy Halloween!


End file.
